


Picking up the threads

by kawuli



Series: Smiles and Promises [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, District 6, Drug Use, F/F, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Arena changes everything, and nothing. </p>
<p>Rokia returns to District Six and tries to find a home to come back to. Phillips tries to be the mentor he knows she deserves. But sometimes the things that haven't changed are the hardest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rokia

Home.

Rokia looks around at the people in the square, a handpicked crowd that’ll look good on the videos and who cheer in a near approximation of enthusiasm. If nothing else they’ll appreciate the food. Rokia reads the speech the escort hands her, shakes hands with the Mayor, and then her family is brought onto the stage to greet her. Her breath catches in her chest as her sisters race toward her and she drops to her knees to catch them in her arms and bury her nose in Kadi’s hair. It’s wonderful and comfortable for half a second until she breathes in and instead of Kadi’s usual soap-and-smog smell it’s some kind of flowery shampoo and stiff hair pulled and tucked into tight braids that Kadi never would have agreed to if she’d been given a choice. Allie’s shaking and trying to blink back the tears that are threatening to spill out of her eyes and Rokia puts a hand on her face and brushes at the moisture on her cheeks with her thumb. She raises her head and looks past the girls to where her Mom’s standing, eyes glassy, clinging to the hand of her latest boyfriend, and Rokia can’t remember his name because he only started coming around a couple weeks before the Reaping. But they need a happy family for the videos so here he is. Rokia walks over to give awkward hugs to her mom and what’s-his-name. The twist in her gut when she pulls away and grabs her sisters’ hands is familiar in the same way the smog in the air is familiar and the rundown streets just out of the camera’s view are familiar. The mayor welcomes Rokia home with empty phrases about bringing pride to a district whose last stubborn pride is tied to steel, not to the glitter of this Capitol charade. When the it's finally over the crowd heads out into the grimy rundown city and the cameras start packing up. 

Phillips is standing just off to one side, waiting for her, and Linsea rushes up to kiss Rokia's cheek and coo over her one last time. Then she's bustling off toward the train and Phillips steps forward and hands Rokia a key. "Your house is ready for you," he says, "I got someone to move your things over."

Rokia blinks, confused. "My house?" she echoes, and Phillips winces.

"In the Village," he says, "I'm sorry, I didn't think to--" 

Rokia shakes her head, cuts him off. "It's fine," she says, looks down at Kadi, who's stayed pressed against her side the whole time, one hand holding onto Rokia's dress and looking at everyone with wide eyes. "You wanna go see our new house?" Kadi smiles shyly, nods up at her. Allie's on the other side of Kadi, arms crossed, lip between her teeth. "Allie?" Rokia asks, and Allie doesn't smile but she does nod, mouth opening just a little.

That's it then. It's better for the girls, a house with a door only she has the key to, so Rokia lets go of the thread she's been clinging to since she woke up in the Capitol, that said "soon you'll be home." Home she wanted so bad she could taste it, smog from the factories and hot metal from the El tracks outside and acrid smoke from whoever was cooking morphling downstairs. It was the mattress on the floor in the room she shared with her sisters, the scarred wooden planks with gaps that showed glimpses of the floor below, the door she braced shut when they went to sleep. It was their stolen electricity and cold water and the sound of the El running through the night. The Victor’s village is all the way on the other side of town and Rokia’s seen it, surrounded with barbed-wire like a fortress, neat wooden houses tucked together behind the Peacekeeper barracks. It's not home, but it's better than home, so Rokia keeps her thoughts to herself and smiles for Phillips. "Let's go see," she says, and Phillips frowns for a second but then he nods and leads the way.

There's a car and driver waiting, and Phillips hesitates, counting the six people and the four seats, but Rokia knows how to handle this one. "Kadi," she says, crouching down and holding her sister's hand, "Can you sit on Phillips' lap in front just for a bit?" Kadi looks at Rokia, then up at Phillips, who hides his surprise in time to smile, and he crouches down too, offers Kadi his hand. 

"Hi there," he says, a little awkward. "I'm Phillips."

"Kadi," she says, quiet. "I saw you on TV," she continues, taking Phillips' hand. "Aunt Magda says you were helping Rokia."

"That's right," Phillips says, quiet.

Kadi looks at him, then back at Rokia, then takes her hand out of Rokia's and gives it to Phillips. He takes it carefully, climbs into the front seat and lets Kadi clamber in on top of him.

"Let's go," Rokia says, opening the backseat, and Allie climbs onto her lap while Mom and her boyfriend go around, squeeze in on the other side. 

Mom's pressed up against her, leans her head back against the seat. "It's so good to have you back, baby," she says, smiling up at the ceiling. "We sure missed you."

"Yeah, Mom," Rokia says, looks over Allie's shoulder and out the window as the streets flash by, faster than she's used to. She rolls down the window and lets the air blow hard against her face, clearing out the smell of smoke, cigarettes and whatever else, that clings to Mom's clothes, even these that must've come from the Capitol, new and shiny and clean. 

Mom leans her head on the boyfriend's shoulder and Rokia wasn't going to ask with Phillips here but she's tired, and fuck it. "What's his name, Mom?"

Mom giggles. "Jason," she says. "You remember him, don't you?" 

Jason smiles over at her, ingratiating, and Rokia's skin crawls. "Yeah," she says, "guess I do."

"It'll be good to get to know each other," Jason drawls, voice all City and factory and smarmy as hell, and Rokia's jaw clenches. 

"Sure," she grits out, old familiar frustration crawling up her throat. 

They get to the Village, past the gate, and Phillips breaks his silence to point out Poppy's house, a few straggling flowers out front, Terence's place, empty and disused-looking now, a light on in the kitchen. His own house is blank but clean, and on the other side is, she guesses, hers. Lights on in all the windows, fresh sky-blue paint outside. Sure enough, the car rolls to a stop, and Rokia opens the door for Allie before following her out. 

They walk up onto the wide porch and stand in front of the door for a moment before Rokia remembers, digs the key out of her pocket and opens the door. The girls are still sticking close to her, follow her in, and then they see the metal box in the middle of the floor and run to it, pushing up the lid and pulling out the homemade toys Rokia'd built for them out of shop scraps. Mom and Jason come in, look around, touching the backs of the soft, comfortable looking couch and chair, wandering through toward the table in the next room. 

Phillips steps up next to her. "You can change it around if you want later," he says, voice a little rough. "Thought it'd be better you didn't have to worry about this stuff right away." 

Rokia looks over at him, nods absently, then takes a deep breath and pulls herself together. "Thanks," she says, and hopefully it doesn't come out too strange. The girls are occupied with their toys, so she follows Mom through into the kitchen, which is painted in warm yellow, full with new appliances and sparkling clean countertops and cupboards. She opens one, experimentally. Dishes, also new, all matching, plates and bowls and glasses. Mom and Jason are standing at the sink talking in low voices and looking out over the yard, and they turn, guilty looks on their faces, when the cupboard door swings closed with a bang. Phillips' face is hard when Rokia turns to go back out, and he watches them a little longer before following her back through the living room to the stairs. 

The stairs turn, open onto a hallway, and Rokia stops. "First on the left's yours," Phillips says, and Rokia skips the door to her right, turns the knob and steps into a room that's way too big for just her. There's a bed on one side, a chair and low table by the window, another door on the far end, and she walks toward it and stops when she sees what's next to it. 

"You brought my stuff?" she asks, kneeling down and touching the padlock. 

"Course I did," Phillips says, and she turns to face him. He looks somewhere between pleased and embarrassed, half-smiling. And then he sees her fingering the padlock and reaches into his pocket. "Here," he says, holding out his hand. "These are yours."

It's the stuff she'd had in her pockets at the Reaping. A few crumpled bills, her keys, and her knife. She gets up and takes them from him, slides everything into her pocket but the keys, unlocks the padlock and lifts the lid. It's all still there, her clothes, a handful of tools, bits and pieces of things that might come in handy, and when she leans over to check whether there's still a roll of bills shoved into the toe of her shoe it smells like machine oil from the shop and dust and smoke and she feels her shoulders relax.

"Thank you," she says, awkward, getting up. 

Phillips looks away. "It's no problem," he says, walks over to the door and pulls it open. "Bathroom in here," he says, and Rokia takes the redirect, looks in. 

"Nice," she says, and it is, but now she's curious whether he's made arrangements for her girls. "The other rooms?" she asks, and Phillips motions her out to the hallway. The door nearest the stairs is another bathroom, she's suprised to see, and then a bedroom with a double bed for Mom, and in the back is one with bunk beds against the back wall, windows on two sides, and a wooden box in the corner Rokia doesn't recognize.

"I hope you don't mind," Phillips says, with that embarrassed look again. "You mentioned they liked trains."

Rokia's eyebrows lift and she opens the box. It's full of wooden pieces of track, straight and curved and bridges and crossings, and in a tray on one side is an engine, passenger and freight cars, and Rokia grins. "Amazing," she says, picking up the engine. "They'll love this."

And as though it was timed, Allie calls up the stairs, a little worried. "Rokia?"

"Yeah," Rokia goes to the doorway and calls back. "I'm up here, come see your room." 

They clatter up the stairs, and Rokia follows them through the door so she gets to see the look on Phillips' face when they see it. She grins. "Can you say thank you to Mister Phillips?" she prompts, and they chorus it back. And then they're climbing on the bottom bunk together, until Kadi squirms away and climbs the ladder, careful, her face serious in concentration. 

"Look how tall I am!" she says, standing up. And at that Rokia can't do anything but laugh. 

Phillips leans against the wall, Rokia sits on the floor, and they watch the girls take everything out of the train box, start putting sections together, crawling around on the floor. And then Rokia realizes they're still in their fancy dresses, and the floor's clean but they shouldn't be messing up their nice clothes like that. And it'll be lunchtime soon, and she's home, even if it's not the old place, and that means back to real life. No meals coming out of the wall in District Six. 

So she scrubs her hands down her face and stands up. Phillips looks over, concerned. "It's fine," she says, trying to take stock. "Is there a grocery store around here somplace?" she asks, and Phillips gives her an indecipherable look.

"Yeah," he says, reluctant, "But I had them put some stuff in the kitchen for you. You shouldn't need to go for a few days." He hesitates. "And if you do need something, I can get it. You dont have to worry about that stuff right now."

Rokia hadn't exactly realized she _was_ worried, until she doesn't have to be. "Can you show me?" she asks, glancing toward the girls. "They'll be busy for a while here," she says. The clothes can wait. 

Phillips nods, pushes himself upright. "Sure thing," he says, leads the way out.

Mom and Jason are sprawled on the couch, watching the TV Rokia hadn't even noticed on her first walkthrough. They barely glance up as Phillips and Rokia walk through to the kitchen, and Phillips' face is tight again as he opens the cupboards, the fridge, shows her a stunning amount of food, spaghetti and rice and bread and a fridgeful of pre-made meals. It's overwhelming and a relief in near-equal parts. 

"Thank you," she says, again, awkward and inadequate. 

Phillips' mouth twists up into almost a smile. "That's what mentors are for," he says, and Rokia looks down. "Doesn't stop after the Arena," he continues, and when she looks back up he's actually smiling at her, soft and real and Rokia doesn't think anyone's looked at her like that since grandma, like she's some kind of gift from the universe. 

She looks away, toward the stairs up to where the girls still need to change clothes. When she looks back toward Phillips he's stoic again. "I should get those girls out of their nice clothes," Rokia says, "Maybe wash some of the crap out of their hair." 

Phillips looks at her, assessing. Then nods. "Okay," he says. "You know how to use the phone?" he asks, gesturing toward where it's hanging on the wall.

Rokia nods. "Yeah, my uncle's got one at the shop," she says. 

Phillips pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. "This is my number, call if you need anything," he says.

Rokia nods. "I will," she says, automatic, but she thinks she actually might.

She follows him out, turns the bolt behind him. Takes a deep breath, leans against the wall for the length of two more breaths, then heads upstairs to change clothes and check on the girls.

Somewhere between helping the girls get settled, taking inventory of what's here, meals and everything else, the day disappears. Rokia moves from one task to the next, just watching as the hours slide past.

Finally Mom and Jason slip out, twitchy and irritable, and the girls are tucked into the bottom bunk, curled together. Rokia sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, watching until they fell asleep. Now she’s restless, anxiety burning through her exhaustion and sending her pacing through the hosue, watching the streetlights out the windows and listening to the hum of the city working through the night. She tries lying in bed but it’s strange and soft and the room's too big, it’s too quiet and everything is wrong. Some familiar pieces are there—the sounds of train whistles far off and melancholy, the smell and the sounds of the factories and the El, but they’re crammed in with the new house and new clothes and she’s not sure how to fit it all together. 

Finally, she slips out into the muggy city night, walking through the empty streets until she gets to the rougher parts of town, where the factories run all night and the junkies don’t keep regular hours. And it’s dangerous and she shouldn’t be out here, but that’s an old thought: that’s from before she learned she really could kill someone with a stolen knife and electrical wire. The nervous energy that’s been running through her all day slows down, focused now that she has real threats to assess--the guys slumped in the doorway would probably be dangerous if they weren’t half-conscious, the man walking towards her is just trying to get home from his job. She’s always done this but now there’s something writhing under her skin saying “just let them try” and her hand curls around her knife but her shoulders relax. When she reaches the familiar doorway and hits the door just where they’d always brace it, it’s less of a relief than it once was to walk into the building and shut away the street. The place is empty now, silent and dusty and the lights don’t work when Rokia flicks the switch so someone must’ve disconnected the jumper cables from the main lines again. She fumbles in the light of the streetlights through the window to find the candles in the kitchen cupboard, and then she’s making her way to the back. It’s dirtier than usual—not surprising really, she’s been gone a full month and who else would clean up? The emptiness itself is more surprising, although Mom’s friends might have cleared out once the Capitol and the Peacekeepers started paying attention. The back room is almost empty, the boxes that'd held her things and the girls' are gone, the blankets packed up, just the stained mattresses on the floor. Still, it's familiar, and Rokia sits on her mattress and dozes, just a little, familiar sounds and smells keeping her firmly grounded in here and now.

But as the candle burns down she pulls herself to her feet. She should get home before the girls wake up and look for her. Her feet hurt, from stupid Capitol shoes and walking all the way over here when they haven't let her walk more than from one room to the next since she got out of the Arena. So she walks down to the El station, drops her coins in the meter, and steps onto the late-night train. There's only a couple people in the car, and none of them give her more than a disinterested glance as she steps on, sits, and by the time they reach the end of the line, she's alone. It's a short walk from here, past the barracks and through the fence, the chain looped around the gate has a padlock but the chain's been cut, looped loosely back around.

When she gets to the house she goes to the box in her room and pulls out the scratchy wool blanket, grabs a pillow, and slips quietly into her sisters’ room. They haven’t moved, limbs tangled half out of the sheets, faces soft with sleep. Rokia locks the door behind her, curls up in the corner, and sleeps.

She wakes up with a start when Allie gets out of bed, sitting up against the wall poised to run before she knows what’s happening. Allie looks at her, drowsy and confused and frightened and Rokia forces herself to relax, to take deep breaths and smile at Allie, who’s standing in the middle of the room watching her warily.

“Good morning, Allie,” she says, and Allie relaxes just a little.

“G’morning” she mumbles, looking down at the floor. She glances up at Rokia, just catching her eye before looking back at her bare feet. “We gotta get up for school.”

Right. Rokia realizes she has absolutely no idea what day of the week it is. She nods, “Sure thing. I’ll make breakfast.”

She gets to her feet while Allie turns to wake Kadi, and heads down to make breakfast, sliding into an old routine that feels strange and wrong. The porridge is oatmeal instead of gritty tesserae mush, with sugar and real milk, the luxuries Phillips brought. The coffee is the same harsh district blend she remembers, made hot enough to scald her mouth and strong enough it hits her stomach like a punch. The girls come in, sleepy-eyed, as she’s finishing up.

"Aunt Magda made us porridge." Kadi says as they sit down, "but it wasn't like yours." 

"It was the same.” Allie says, glaring at her. “Mom tried making pancakes one time but they burned." 

"Aunt Magda made you breakfast?" Rokia asks.

“She brought us over to her house when she got back from her trip. Before that it was just Mom and sometimes she forgot to make breakfast so we had to go to school without.”

“Where did you go after school?”

“We just came home. Mom usually remembered about supper.” Allie shrugs, looking at Rokia again, quick glances before looking away again.

“But it was nicer at Aunt Magda's,” Kadi says, “She said the Capitol people wanted her to take care of us because you were special and that meant all of us were too.”

Rokia doesn’t know what to say to that, so she passes them bowls of oatmeal and their eyes get wide as they eat. 

Kadi beams. “This is even better than you used to make!” 

Rokia grins back at her and eats her own oatmeal. “Come on,” she says as they finish. “We have to catch the train, we don't want to be late.” 

The train leaves them only a few blocks from the school, the same one Rokia went to until Kadi was born. She leaves them at the door, ducking her head to avoid the stares of her former classmates, the girls her age leaning against the chain link fence, short skirts and lazy smirks and cigarettes on one side, carefully combed hair and neat bookbags on the other, a few former friends and more indifferent classmates who probably never thought about her until she appeared on their screens. 

As she's walking away someone calls after her. She turns. The principal is standing there, and Rokia has to force down the old anxiety that has more to do with embarrassment than real fear. 

She tries to smile. “Yes?” 

“Welcome back, Rokia. We're all very proud of you.” 

“Thank you. It's good to be back.” Rokia wonders if he remembers her, an unremarkable kid who disappeared years ago, one in a stream of teenagers working or taking care of siblings or disappearing into the same addictions that trap their parents. He’s acting like it, but everybody’s acting weird these days, so who knows.

It’s a long way back to the Village, but Rokia’s got nothing better to do so she walks, mind wandering as she makes her way back. Mom and Jason are sitting in the kitchen when she walks into the house, drinking coffee and staring out the window. Rokia half wants to sneak up the stairs and hide in her room. But Mom turns when she hears the door close, smiling at Rokia lazy and sweet and stoned. 

“G'mornin' baby,” she says.

Rokia forces herself to relax, pours herself a cup of coffee just to have something to do with her hands. 

“It’s all so nice,” Mom says, looking around. “I'm just so glad you got all this. Your grandpa” —her mouth twists, voice hard for a moment— “he should see us now.”

Rokia turns away to fiddle with the kettle. 

“Yeah, Mom. It's great.”

“Honey, you should be happy, you won, you don't gotta take shit from nobody no more.”

Rokia winces, at the words and at the accent, the roughness that breaks through when Mom's not with it enough to notice. Mom says she should be happy, everyone keeps saying how they’re proud of her, as though killing other kids and managing not to get killed herself was something honorable. Sure, she’s never going to have to work again, she's never going to have to worry if there's enough to pay for groceries. She's got a big house with doors that lock. It is nice. Maybe she should be happy. Everyone else seems to be. She just can’t seem to summon the ability to care. 

\--

Every night Rokia wakes up with the Arena crawling under her skin and she walks over to their old place. It’s beyond stupid, walking through the streets alone, at night, and Uncle Sal would kill her himself if he knew she was risking letting some junkie do it.

It’s just that she can’t stay still inside, needs to move, needs to be able to breathe and even the smog in the streets is better than inside. So she slips into her clothes and out into the night that’s just starting to lose its oppressive summer humidity. 

She’s sitting on the roof one night, not quite awake but not fully asleep, when she hears a clang and a muffled curse and Sara scrambles over the edge of the roof. 

Shit.

She’s been home for days and she hasn’t been by the shop or said hello to anybody or even thanked Magda for watching the girls because the idea of talking to them is so phenomenally awkward her brain shuts down before she even thinks about doing it. She drops the girls at school from a block away and walks home before anyone in their old neighborhood notices she’s there. 

She hasn’t even tried to talk to Sara and here she fucking is, climbing up on the roof at fuck-all hours of the night as though nothing at all has changed except Rokia’s been turned inside-out and shaken and she’s still trying to figure out if there’s even enough pieces to put back together.

Her mouth has gone dry and her heart’s racing and she doesn’t know what to say, and when Sara looks over and sees her they’re both too shocked to say a damn thing.

Sara’s the first to recover, always a step ahead, and she tilts her head and smiles.

“Hey, Rokia,” she says, and her voice is rough even though she’s trying to keep it light, “fancy seeing you here.” 

Rokia looks up. Sara’s smiling at her, soft and sweet, and Rokia breathes a little easier just seeing it. Sara comes and sits next to her, looking over in the glow from the streetlights.

“Hey,” Rokia says, and she knows her voice is rough and she can’t think what to say. 

Sara puts a hand to Rokia’s face, rubbing her thumb over Rokia’s cheekbone.

“You’re really here,” she says, and Rokia smiles even though the touch is keeping her from moving her head and setting off alarm bells somewhere in her stupid brain. 

“Yeah, Sara, I’m really here.”

“Are you okay?” Sara drops her hand to her lap and it’s all Rokia can do not to sigh with relief. 

Rokia laughs at that. “I’m sitting on a roof in the middle of the night a couple miles from where I’m supposed to be sleeping because I’m too crazy to stay indoors, but you know, sure, why not?”

They sit in silence for a while.

“Did you watch?” Rokia asks, finally, not sure what answer she’d prefer.

Sara looks at her. “Yeah, pretty much constantly. We had it on all the time in the crew rooms.” 

“And you still want to sit here with me?”

“Rokia—of course I do.”

“It isn’t ‘of course’ and you know it.” Rokia’s not sure why she’s fighting. She wants to kiss Sara and tell her how much she missed her but the thing is it isn’t really true. She missed her at first, Sara and her sisters and home, but in the Arena she couldn’t afford to think about anything but where her water or food or weapons were coming from, who might be sneaking up on her while she tried to sleep, and everything else dimmed down to flashes of memory, if that. She’s still raw and aching and she’s sitting out here in the middle of the night because she can’t sleep and she is beyond being able to pretend everything is fine. 

She has blood on her hands, and it’s not that she feels guilty for it, not really, when what other choice did she have? But she’s killed kids younger than Sara and she’s got a switchblade sitting open next to her because a girl younger than Sara nearly stabbed Rokia while she sipped water out of a drainpipe. A girl Rokia didn’t know for certain she’d killed until she watched the recap because by the time the cannon fired Rokia was halfway across the Arena with the girl’s knife shoved through her belt.

And the fact that she’s thinking about that when her possibly-girlfriend and definitely best friend is sitting next to her in a place they’ve sat together hundreds of times means Sara should probably go back to the trains without bothering with the mess that’s become of Rokia’s head.

Sara’s looking at her, her face unreadable in the dark. She pulls out a cigarette, lights it and takes a deep draw before handing it to Rokia. Their fingers brush, but that’s okay, and the smoke burns in her lungs and she watches it as she blows it up towards the gray sky. 

They get through the whole thing without another word and by the end Rokia’s not tracking Sara’s hands, not tensing with the expectation of contact. Sara lights another off the first and looks at Rokia as though she’s expecting a protest. 

“Hey, if you’re not pissed at me for killing people I can hardly get mad about you smoking too much,” Rokia says. It comes out tight and rough and wrong but Sara smiles back at her as though everything was normal. 

They sit there for a long time. Rokia flicks her knife open, closed, open, closed and Sara watches her until she closes it and sticks it in her pocket. 

It’s starting to get light. Rokia can see the worry on Sara’s face more clearly now and she wants to wipe it away, wants to kiss her and go downstairs and relearn each other, wants to scramble off the roof and run all the way--where? Home, wherever that is. She’s been sitting still so long she’s stiff and uncomfortable and she stands up and paces the length of the roof, back and forth in the dim light, until Sara gets up and meets her.

“Rokia…” Sara says, “What do you want me to do?”

Rokia stops. To hell with it, she thinks, and presses close to Sara, burying her nose in the hollow of Sara’s neck, demanding that her brain feel Sara’s arms coming around her as comfort, not threat. 

It doesn’t work for long and she finds herself shaking free, but she stops, tips her head up and Sara puts light hands on Rokia’s shoulders and kisses her before stepping back.

“You look like hell, you know,” she says, her voice teasing but her eyes worried. 

Rokia shrugs. She knows. It doesn’t matter.

“Can I walk you home?”

“You don’t have to be somewhere?” It’s half-joking, because it’s 5AM and where would she have to be? 

Sara just looks at her. “Come on, you, let’s go.” 

They walk back through near-deserted streets, quiet as it ever is in a district full of factories, streetlights winking out as the sun comes up. When they get to Rokia’s house Sara’s eyes go wide. 

“Nice place,” she says. 

Rokia shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Come over sometime when the girls are up, I’ll give you the tour.”

“Sure thing.”

They stand there, on the front porch, awkward like they haven’t been in years, and finally Rokia leans forward, kisses Sara light and quick. “It’s okay,” she says as she steps back, “Go.”

Sara bites her lip, worried. “I’ll come back.”

Rokia smiles. “You better.”

“I always will.” Sara’s serious suddenly, and that’s not fair, and Rokia squeezes her hand when she doesn’t trust herself to respond. 

Rokia drops the girls off at school later and turns, feet moving automatically, ready to walk home, when she hears someone come up behind her and spins, hands clenched into fists, ready to attack. 

“Woah, girl, I’m not gonna hurt you.” It’s Matt, from Uncle Sal’s shop. “Salif sent me to see if you might be here, he’s got a job he needs help with”

Rokia hesitates. She’s tired and antsy and part of her just wants to go home rather than brave the awkward stares she’ll get walking back into the shop, but she owes Sal, and she doesn’t actually have anything to do at home, so why not?

“OK” she says, and Matt grins. “Let’s see what he’s got himself into this time.”

“It’s a PK craft,” he says as they walk toward the shop. “Something finicky in the levitation system, it’s not firing at full power.”

“Great, probably an electrical problem and he wants me to crawl through the thing looking for faulty connections.”

“Yeah, prob’ly, you know none of us can fit up in there. He said if you wouldn’t come he’d have to wait till his kid got out of school and send him up through.”

“Does Jack even know how to find bad connections?” 

“Doubt it, he’s just a kid”

“I could, when I was his age.”

“Yeah, but you’re…” He trails off.

Rokia smirks. “I’m what, Matt?”

“Smarter’n him, that’s for sure.”

“Prob’ly got something to do with bein’ in the shop since I was big enough to hold a screwdriver”

“Yeah, prob’ly so. Anyway he’ll be glad to see you, we’ve been short handed since you left.”

“Why doesn’t he hire somebody?”

“Oh, you know Sal, he doesn’t trust people he doesn’t know. Keeps sayin’ he’ll get around to it but…” Matt shrugs. 

Matt talks the whole way back to the shop, about the jobs they’ve been taking and the problems they’ve had and the girl Matt’s seeing. He doesn’t ask her about the Games or the Capitol or the Village or anything, doesn’t mention it when she checks the alleys and doorways, doesn’t tell her to relax when she curls her hands into fists, doesn’t seem to expect her to say much. She’s barely talked to anyone since she got back, so it’s almost overwhelming and she’s glad he’s making it easier for her. It helps that he’s been working for uncle Sal as long as she has, that he’s known her since she was 8 years old and getting underfoot trying to learn everything at once.

When they walk into the shop Sal is on the phone to someone, leaning against his desk and speaking in his careful, neutral voice to what can only be someone from the Peacekeeper office. 

“Yes, sir, we will make it top priority.” He looks over and smiles, looking relieved, when he sees Rokia walking in with Matt. “Yes, I’ve got my best people on it,” he continues, winking at her. “Should be done by the end of the day.”

When he hangs up he comes over and claps her on the shoulder. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you. Someone needs to tell the Threes who design these things that grown men work on ‘em and if we can’t get into where the problems are we can’t fix ‘em.”

Rokia smiles. Some things haven’t changed, apparently, and one of them is uncle Sal’s griping about hovercraft design. She goes to the back room, grabs a multimeter, and shrugs into her coveralls, still hanging where she left them. 

It’s a tight fit and an annoying, fiddly job, testing each connection and looking for snagged wires, and it takes hours until she finds the join that’s loose. 

“Sal!” she calls down, “Found it! Get me the soldering iron and some shrinkwrap.”

She slides out of the belly of the craft, and really, there isn’t any way Sal could get into the access panels comfortably—they’re almost too small for her. Matt hands up the tools and in a few minutes she’s finished. 

She clambers into the cockpit and fires up the craft, listening as the levitation ring comes online and the craft goes weightless on its supports. Sal’s giving her a thumbs-up, watching as everything comes online, so she shuts it down and climbs out. 

“Looks good, girl. Thanks for helping out.” He’s shifting his weight from one leg to the other, arms crossed over his chest. “Look, I…” he rubs one hand over his short-cropped hair and then drops it to his side. “I know you don’t need the cash anymore but we could sure use you if you ever want to come by.” 

Just like that it’s awkward again. Rokia fidgets with the zipper on her coveralls, glances around at the familiar, well-ordered mess and noise of the shop in full swing, drops her hand to her side.

“I dunno, Uncle Sal,” she says finally. “I’ll see what I can do.” Then she smirks, looks up at him. “I knew the place’d fall apart without me.”

He laughs, a quick huff of breath, and smiles back. “Hey now. It’s not so bad as all that.”

“Sure it’s not.” She glances at the clock. “I got a couple hours before I have to meet the girls, got anything else needs doing?”

In the end she has to rush to get back to the school in time, leaving Matt to finish a transmission overhaul on the truck and wiping her hands ineffectually as she strips out of her coveralls. 

The girls come up to her as they leave school. Allie lets her take her hand and smiles a little, while Kadi snuggles in on the other side. It’s comfortable and almost familiar and even if they're going somewhere different, at least this part is the same. 

\--

The next day she drops the girls off and goes straight to the shop, because it's better than going home. Sal grins when she comes in and Matt calls out a hello from where he's settled in to troubleshoot some steering problem. It's comfortable and familiar, and even better, she's not rushing to pick up the girls and get back to work. She can just call goodbye to Sal and the rest and walk out.

She gets there just as classes are getting out, a stream of kids moving past her, and nobody looks twice at another teenager in jeans and a grease-smeared T-shirt. Her girls come out holding hands and Kadi lets go when she sees Rokia, runs up to her.

"Look!" Kadi says, holding out a crayon drawing. "It's my family!"

Rokia takes it, tries not to laugh at the horde of people crowding the page.

"Who's all here?" she asks instead.

"Well, at first it was just you and me and Allie," Kadi says, pointing. "And then Fatim said you couldn't have a family where everyone was kids, so I put in Mom, and Aunt Magda and Uncle Salif and Jack, and Mom's friends, and then she said it was just supposed to be people who lived with us, but I said they all used to live with us except Aunt Magda and Uncle Salif and Jack but we go over there when Rokia's working, except now we live in Rokia's house and it's just us and Mom and Jason and I'm not sure if the others are coming because there's not bedrooms but there's lots of space they'd just have to bring their own mattresses."

Allie scowls at her sister. "Kadi, that's not how it works."

Kadi sticks her tongue out. "Says you," she says, and now Rokia can't help laughing.

"Kadi, Mom's friends aren't going to come live with us," she says. "It's just us."

"And Jason," Kadi says. "What's special about him?"

Rokia can't find an answer for that, at least not one that's suitable for a 4-year-old. "He just is," she says, and some of her frustration must slip out because Kadi looks down at the ground, pulls her hand out of Rokia's. Allie bites her lip, digs into her pocket and comes up with the broken end of a blue crayon. 

"Here," she says, reaching behind Rokia to hand it to Kadi. "I found it for you."

Kadi takes it reluctantly, rolls the stub of wax between her fingers, and takes Allie's hand with a small smile.

By the time they get home, Kadi's gotten over it, telling Rokia about the book her teacher read them and the girl she built block houses with. When they walk in, she takes her family portrait and heads for the couch. "Mama," she says, "look!"

Rokia follows her, stops short when she sees Mom and Jason lying tangled together on the couch, empty syringes and tinfoil and lighter spread out over the table. 

"Mama?" Kadi says, and Mom blinks her eyes open, slowly. 

"Hey baby," she says, closes her eyes.

"Mama look!" Kadi says, insistent, but Mom doesn't open her eyes before she replies.

"Later, baby, I'm sleepy."

Kadi's face falls and Rokia realizes she's clenching her jaw so hard it hurts. She forces herself to take a deep breath, goes over to Kadi. "Come on, Kadi, we'll show Mom another time. You wanna play with your trains?"

Kadi looks at Rokia, back at Mom, her lower lip stuck out and confusion in her eyes. Then finally she nods and heads for the stairs. Allie runs to catch up with her, takes her hand and they go up together.

Rokia's hands clench to fists and she goes into the kitchen, gets a sack, sweeps everything off the table into it and dumps it in the kitchen garbage. 

Then she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and takes deep breaths until the urge to scream subsides a bit. It's not like this is new. Hell, at least it's just the two of them, not a whole roomful of people from who-knows-where, at least Rokia's the only one with the key to the place so even if Mom wanted to bring all the friends in Kadi's picture she couldn't. She smiles a little despite everything, at Kadi's confident declaration--"We live in Rokia's house now." 

And then she remembers her grandfather, fists clenched and toe-to-toe with Mom, telling her it's his house and so she'll follow his rules--and the last thing Rokia wants to do is to be like him, but shit, it is her house. 

And it's not like "Keep that shit away from the girls" is an unreasonable rule.

And Kadi might be confused about who her family really is, but Rokia's not.

She takes one more deep breath and walks into the living room. Stands just out of arms reach and says, "Hey. Wake up."

Mom looks up at her, tries to go back to sleep, and Rokia doesn't want to scare the girls by yelling but she will if she has to. "Now, Mom," she says, and Mom must catch something in her voice because she elbows Jason and struggles to sit up. 

"What, baby," she whines, while Jason scrubs his hands over his face. 

"You are not bringing this shit into my house," Rokia says, and it's like her grandpa is smirking over her shoulder, she can hear his sharp laughter from all the way up North. "You wanna shoot up, you find someplace else to do it."

Mom's glaring now, so she gets it. "And you," Rokia says, looking at Jason. "I don't even fucking know you. And you're not family, so you can get out."

"Rokia, baby," Mom says, trying for placating. "Don't be like that, c'mon."

It's almost funny. It is funny, actually, Mom looking up at her with that ingratiating smile that might work on other people, might get her a days's work now and then or a couple bucks for her next hit. Rokia lets herself smile, knows it's not nice at all when Mom's face goes dark and furious. 

"Fine," Mom says, hauling herself to her feet. "You know what, fuck you, you ungrateful bitch," she hisses. "Let's go," she says to Jason, who's looking bewildered, mostly, and he follows her out the door. 

It's only then that Rokia sees Allie, peeking around from the bottom of the stairs. Rokia forces herself to unclench her fists, her jaw, to inhale, exhale, and find a real smile for Allie before walking toward her.

Allie's eyes are huge and scared when Rokia crouches down and reaches for her hands. Allie meets her, and Rokia takes both of her sister's hands and rubs her thumbs over the backs. Allie looks down at their hands, up at Rokia's face. "Is Mom coming back?" she asks, worried.

"Yeah, Allie," Rokia says, "She'll be back. But I'm not letting her bring friends over anymore."

Allie nods, considering. "I don't like Mom's friends," she says, glancing up at Rokia, looking for any sign of disapproval, but Rokia just pulls her in for a hug. 

"I don't either," Rokia says, pulling back. "And Kadi's right, we live in my house now, so I don't have to let them come over."

Allie smiles a little. Nods, looking at the door. "Kadi wants you to come play trains with us," she says. Rokia takes Allie's hand, lets her sister lead her up the stairs.


	2. Phillips

Phillips sees Rokia come into the village from his kitchen window, her sisters holding tight to her hands. He goes over to the house most days, bring takeout food or groceries or occasionally his own cooking. Every time she says thank you, studying him, watching, evaluating. He asks her how she’s doing, if she needs anything, and she just shrugs and says she’s figuring it out, she’s fine, she’ll let him know. Once she asks him where to buy bread, once whether he knows an apothecary who could look at her sister’s cold. He takes them there, wonders the whole time how he’s supposed to bring any of it up. “I see you coming home at 5AM most nights, where have you been?” That’ll get him nowhere, he knows that much. The apothecary gives them a decongestant and says Kadi’ll be fine in a couple days, and they walk back.

Rokia’s got her arm curled around Kadi’s shoulders, protective, and Phillips knows the feeling but he feels helpless to do anything about it. When they get to the house Rokia unlocks the door and steps inside, turns to him. 

“Thanks, Phillips,” she says, and her voice is a dismissal for all that he wants an invitation. “I’m going to put Kadi to bed.”

“You should get some rest yourself,” he says, and her mouth twists.

“Sure,” she says, “see you later, Phillips.”

Phillips knows about sleepless nights, about nightmares that don’t go away. He knows, in an abstract sort of way, that there’s drugs for that sort of thing, but he won’t let her turn into another drug-addict Six, waste the bright spark that’s still there under everything. She’ll get through it just like he did, struggling through to someplace calmer.

Brutus calls, out of the blue, a couple weeks after they get back to Six. “How’s your girl?” he asks. Never one for small talk. Phillips sighs.

“She’s…okay, I think. I’m not sure she likes me all that much.”

“She’ll come around,” Brutus says, “You just gotta show her you’ve got her back.”

Phillips sighs. “Yeah. I didn’t think—it’s harder than I thought.”

Brutus chuckles a little, just a huff of breath down the phone line. “It ain’t easy, that’s for sure.”

Phillips smiles. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to a confession that there are some things Brutus finds difficult.

He’s not sure what he can do until late one night he wakes up and isn’t sure why at first. Then he sees the porch light on next door, hears voices. He almost doesn’t recognize Rokia’s, it’s harsh and clipped and furious, and in sharp contrast to the slow, slurred voices replying. He’s downstairs in a heartbeat.

“You are not bringing that shit into _my_ house,” Rokia’s saying, and she’s standing in the doorway, fists clenched. Her mother’s leaning on the man she’s with, who has his arm around her, his fingers tucked into the waistband of her skirt.

“Come on, baby,” Rokia’s mom whines, “we won’t make no noise, he’ll be gone before the girls wake up, it’s fine.”

Phillips is across the grass before she finishes talking, and Rokia catches his eye as he mounts the stairs. “What’s going on here?” he asks, walking over to stand next to Rokia.

Rokia’s mom giggles. “Oh, Mr. Phillips, it’s just a family thing, Rokia don’t wanna let me come in.”

Rokia’s jaw is clenched and her shoulders are taut and she lets a breath hiss between her teeth. “Mom, I told you I didn’t want you bringing people home, I am not letting you in with him.”

Phillips steps forward and glares at the two so-called adults, who back away from whatever they see in his eyes. “Get out, both of you,” he says.

The guy looks like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. He tightens his arm around Rokia’s mom and turns her toward the stairs. “Come on, Mata, we’ll find someplace else.”

Phillips doesn’t move, just watches Rokia watch them until they leave the village, passing through the useless gates out into the city, and only then does she seem to uncoil a bit, leaning into the doorframe and closing her eyes. She takes a deep breath and looks at Phillips.

“Thanks,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes. “Sorry for waking you up, she’s…” Rokia trails off, shrugs.

She’s still so tense Phillips doesn’t think he should touch her, so he runs a hand through his hair instead, tries to keep the fury out of his voice. “Don’t apologize for her,” he says. “Just glad I could help.”

Rokia bites her lips. “Yeah.” She glances up at him, then back down. “I should…” she waves a hand toward the house. “Should check on the girls.”

Phillips just nods. “Goodnight, Rokia,” he says, and that gets him a small smile.

“Goodnight Phillips.”

It happens again, a few nights later, and again a week after that. Finally Phillips calls Brutus, feeling like an idiot, because Two doesn’t have this kind of problem but he’s got nobody else he can ask.

“How’s your girl?” Brutus asks, right off.

“Alright, I think,” Phillips says. “But her mother is a real piece of work.”

“How’s that?”

“Ah, you know Six, she’s out sticking needles in her arms and trying to bring so-called dates back to the house in the middle of the night.” Silence for a second. He shouldn’t have called, this was a stupid idea.

“You know,” Brutus says finally, “the family doesn’t _have_ to live in the Village. Kid gets to decide that. If your girl doesn’t want her Mom there she just has to say so.”

“Doesn’t she need a guardian till she’s of age?”

“Victors play by different rules.”

Phillips hums. It’s an idea. “I’ll ask her.”

Brutus pauses again. “If you think it’s the right thing to do you should convince her. You’re her mentor, you help her make those kinda decisions.”

“If she’ll let me.” Phillips is skeptical. Sure, it works for well-trained Two victors who rely on their mentors for everything after the Games, but even though he doesn’t know much about her he knows his kid is hard-headed.

“Convince her,” Brutus repeats. “She’ll come around.”

“Worth a shot,” Phillips agrees finally. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Phillips glares at the phone for a second, considering. Brutus isn’t wrong. And it is worth a try. He waits until he sees her come in that afternoon and heads over.

Rokia lets him in, locks the door behind them, and walks into the kitchen, where the two little girls are sitting at the table. The littlest one is kicking her feet on the rungs of the chair and repeating a story from school, while her sister watches. Rokia goes back to the counter.

“You want anything?” she asks, “They wanted peanut butter, so that’s what I’m making.” She sounds more relaxed, and Phillips smiles a little. “I’m fine, thanks, he says, as she brings the girls their snacks. “Wanted to talk to you if you have a minute.”

Rokia studies him, nods. “I’m just going in the other room with Phillips, okay? Allie, if you need anything you come get me.” The older girl nods, big brown eyes serious.

They walk into the living room, which looks almost untouched but for an armchair in the corner of the room, where a blanket and a notebook indicate some kind of occupancy. Rokia sits there, and Phillips perches on the edge of the couch. “It’s about your Mom,” he says, reluctantly, and Rokia’s face goes blank. “You know she doesn’t have to live here with you.”

Rokia looks at him, surprised. “She’s my mom, where else would she live?”

Phillips shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be your problem.”

Rokia’s eyebrows furrow. “She’s family, I can’t…” she stops. “I’m not like that.”

Phillips wants to drop it, but Brutus’s advice is still running around his head. “Rokia, she needs help.”

Rokia looks at him again. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a treatment center I helped set up, she could go there.” Phillips hasn’t ever tried to influence intake decisions, it’s not his right, but he’s making an exception for this one, and anyone who has a problem with that can get lost.

Rokia’s watching him, eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?” she asks.

Now it’s Phillips’ turn to be surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Being nice. Bringing us food, coming out when my Mom shows up at ridiculous hours, now this—what is this about?”

Phillips doesn’t know what to say, he’s silent for a moment, watching her, and she stares him down until he finally says “Because that’s what mentors do. I look out for you because it’s my job.” He stops. It’s not the whole truth but it’s enough for now. “Because I waited 23 years for this and I care about you” is probably too much emotion for one day. Rokia’s already looking away, sitting on her hands and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Look,” she says, finally. “I’ll think about it, what you said about Mom.”

Phillips nods. It’s realistically the best he could hope for. “You need anything?” He always asks. “Should I pick up dinner?”

Rokia shakes her head. “I’m making spaghetti.” She pauses. “Do you want some? I could bring you something or—I mean, if you don’t mind the kids you could eat here?”

Phillips wants to grin and hug her and laugh, but he just smiles. “I’ll come by later.”

Rokia nods. “Okay,” she says, getting to her feet. Phillips follows her to the door. “I’ll see you later then.”

“See you later,” Phillips says, and walks out. He gets all the way to his house before he laughs with relief.

He goes over a little later, stands at the door waiting and trying not to feel awkward. Rokia smiles when she opens the door, just a little but it’s real. “Come on in,” she says, and Phillips stops just inside the door to watch the two little girls, lying on the living room floor with coloring books and crayons.

Rokia smiles. “First time I’ve been able to buy them stuff like that,” she says, glancing over at Phillips. “Guess it’s not all bad.” She turns to go into the kitchen, and he follows. She pulls out a stack of plates and hands them to him. “Can you put these on?”

It’s oddly comforting, domestic and relaxed and somehow _normal_ in a way Phillips can’t remember, putting food on the table and calling the kids to come eat and it’d all be fine except Rokia is sixteen and her eyes betray restless nights and she shouldn’t be taking care of everyone else. But when she’s serving spaghetti to her sisters and telling Kadi not to talk with her mouth full she’s as close to relaxed as Phillips has ever seen her, so he figures he’s got nothing to complain about.

Kadi looks over at him. “Mister Phillips?” she asks, “Are you the one who made our new house?”

Phillips smiles. “No, I just picked what to put inside.”

“It’s the best house,” she says, “it’s really big! And just for us!”

Rokia’s mouth twitches up in a half-smile but she keeps quiet. Phillips can’t help his grin. “It is,” he says.

“You really picked out our trains and everything? How did you know what to get?”

Phillips smiles for her, but the memory cuts deep. “Your sister told me about you,” he says, glancing at Rokia. She’s looking down at her plate so he can’t read her face.

He hadn’t gotten it in the training center, when she’d told him about her sisters, pinned him with the first honest look she’d given him, fierce and desperate, and asked him, please, to look out for them afterwards, if she didn’t make it back. He’d started to understand when they interviewed her family at the final eight, finally figured it out when, as soon as the cameras were off, both girls clung tight to their sister and ignored their mother. When Rokia’s closed-off distant look cracked into a soft smile and she knelt to hold them close.

But that’s not a story for a four-year-old, so Phillips tells her, “She told me you liked to play with trains.”

“Yeah and me and Allie have a train Rokia made us.” Kadi looks over at Allie, who’s watching everything, rapt and silent. “We send Allie’s cat on trips to visit Grandma.”

Allie looks at her sister, then at Phillips, hesitant, before asking, “How’d you get all our stuff moved over here? We didn’t even go home to pack up.”

Just one more thing in the post-Games whirlwind, sitting with someone from Victor Affairs and going over preparations, deliveries of furniture and kitchen supplies and linens and they’d asked if there was anything to bring from the old house. Asked as though they’d assumed the answer would be no, because who would want their old stuff when the Capitol could give them everything, shiny and new? Phillips told them to bring it all, glaring at the man in the sparkly silver suit, and at least they’d done it when he asked, brought over boxes with faded blankets and the battered clothes Rokia’s wearing now, and the box of homemade toys that the little girls had run to right away.

“We got some people to help,” Phillips keeps it simple. “They went to your old house and got everything.”

Allie nods, goes back to focusing on her food.

“We saw you on TV,” Kadi says. “Aunt Magda says you helped Rokia win.”

Rokia glances over, sharp suddenly. “Aunt Magda let you watch TV?”

Allie looks up then, worried, but Kadi just continues. “Not very much. She said it was a grownups show and good girls don’t watch.”

“We saw you talk to Caesar Flickerman,” Allie says, nervous like she thinks she’ll get in trouble. “But only part of it.”

Phillips sees Rokia relax a little at that, and he’s glad. Sure, there are probably plenty of 6-year-olds who watch the Games, but no kid needs to see her sister kill another child.  

“Your Aunt Magda’s right,” Phillips said, “I helped Rokia come home, and I helped get your house ready.” And just to change the subject, he goes on. “Did I forget anything?”

Kadi tilts her head to one side, thinking, but Allie bites her lip and looks down. “It’s all real nice, Mister Phillips,” Allie says, soft. “Thank you.”

“You wanna see our new trains?” Kadi asks, “You can play if you want.”

Rokia glances over at Phillips. “You don’t have to,” she says, “I know you’re busy.”

Phillips looks around the table at these kids, thinks about his house, dark across the yard, papers stacked on his desk the only thing waiting for him, and he shakes his head. “I got time,” he says, a little rough.

“Can we go Rokia?” Kadi asks, “Can I show Mister Phillips? Please?”

Rokia smiles, and she looks tired and anxious but still, somehow, happy, and she nods. “Sure, girlen, go ahead.”

Kadi comes around the table to take Phillips’s hand, and he lets her lead him up the stairs.

\--

Phillips sits at his kitchen table, head bent over a pile of polling data. It’s habit, every year after the Games, to ask for the polls, the TV ratings, the Capitol’s favorite Games moments and each district’s viewing statistics, but this year it truly matters for the first time. The Capitol finds her exotic, an unexpected win from a district whose Victors are old and uninteresting, a girl who won with clever tricks and evasiveness and who seemed fearless, all the way through. It’s enough to give Phillips a headache—these people who think just because she kept herself together and didn’t scream or cry or go catatonic everything was fine. The outer districts like her well enough, any non-Career Victor is popular out there. But the industrial districts—5 and 6 and 8, some parts of 3— they love her. Loved her from her Reaping, standing on stage with grease under her nails, the interviews, her careful competence in the Arena itself.  And it’s that, more than anything, that keeps Phillips up at night. Popularity is dangerous. Popularity in the districts Snow is most wary of could be fatal. It will have to be neutered, somehow, and there’s no way Phillips can think of to avoid that meaning pain for Rokia. He will have to play his cards carefully—and that’d be easier if he actually had any. This isn’t his game. He’s never had to craft an image past the Arena, his own Games had their moments but the Capitol was happy to let him fade into obscurity.

So he calls Brutus.

“How’s your girl?”

“She’s doing alright. Had me over for dinner—yeah, I know, it’s backwards, but nobody eats my cooking when they’ve got options.”

Brutus chuckles, a low rumble in his throat.

Phillips takes a deep breath. “You mind talking about image? I don’t know how to spin hers.”

Brutus blows out a long breath. “Yeah, you’ve got a tricky one there.” Phillips closes his eyes. Of course Brutus will have seen the same information he has. It’s a fine line they’re all trying to tread, as the Games get more and more spectacular and the Victors skew wilder. “She comes off clever. You have to use that right or it’ll be a problem.”

“Yeah.” Phillips figured as much, but his stomach still drops hearing it confirmed.

“And then there’s her sponsors.”

That’s a new one. “What about them?”

“Well, I know you’re smart enough not to promise them anything,” and Phillips’ mouth goes dry, “but they’ll want some kind of return on investment.”

Phillips swallows. “Oh. I didn’t think about—oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Brutus’s voice goes sarcastic for a minute. “You didn’t think they were giving you money out of the goodness of their hearts.”

Phillips snorts. “No, I just—well, I wasn’t thinking about after.”

“Well, it’s after, so you better start thinking.”

“Yeah.”

Brutus sighs. “Look, we all serve the Capitol.” Phillips winces a little, but keeps his opinion to himself. “If they think she’s smart, use that. She’s supposed to be some kind of mechanic, see if she can’t do something useful.”

Phillips sits back in his chair, considering. “Sounds a little like a Three strategy.”

“Well, they’re supposed to be the smart ones.” Phillips can’t tell if Brutus is being sincere or sarcastic.

“It’s a good idea,” he says, turning it over in his head. “Rokia will like it, I think.”

“Even better.”

“Thanks,” Phillips says, because it’s a weight off his shoulders just to talk to someone.

“No trouble,” Brutus says. “You take care.”

\--

Phillips is looking at the same damn polling data the next morning when there’s a knock on the door. Rokia’s standing there when he opens it, twisting the hem of her t-shirt in her fingers. Phillips motions her into the house, curses internally at the bleakness of it, the nearly-bare living room, the clear sense that it’s a place to sleep and work more than a place to live. At least he has a couch. Rokia sits on one end of it, curls her knees to her chest and looks at him.

“What you said about my mom…” she pauses, and Phillips nods, swallows past the lump in his throat. “Did you mean it?”

“Yeah, Rokia, I did,” Phillips doesn’t want to push too hard so he leaves it at that.

“I think…” Rokia’s hesitant, won’t look at him. “I think it’s a good idea. I don’t like her bringing that stuff around the girls.”

Phillips lets his breath out, slow. “Okay,” he says. “Is she at home now?”

Rokia shakes her head. “I don’t know what to tell her,” she says, almost too quiet for Phillips to hear.

“I can tell her if you want.”

Rokia nods. “I don’t—” she pulls herself into a ball, shrinking so she’s occupying the smallest possible space, and she’s staring at the floor. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t want her around the girls, not like this, it’s worse now than before even but…” She trails off.

Phillips thinks he gets it. “She’s still your mom.”

“Yeah.” Rokia looks miserable, sad and small and impossibly young, and Phillips aches for her.

“Hey, Rokia, kid—you’re doing good, y’know that?” His voice is rough but he can’t help it, and Rokia looks up with wide, surprised eyes, and gives him a small, shy smile before looking away again. “I’ll talk to your Mom.”

She glances at him again. “Thank you,” she says, and starts uncurling, getting ready to leave.

“I could come over, if you want?” Phillips doesn’t want her leaving, sitting by herself in her house, but he doesn’t want to force things. Rokia pauses for a minute, considering.

“Okay,” she says, finally, nodding. “If you’re there when she gets home we can get it over with.”

Phillips grabs his piles of paper, puts something innocuous on top in case she asks, and follows her back.

He sits on the unused couch while Rokia folds herself sideways into the chair in the corner, moving between some kind of catalog and scribbling in a notebook, glancing around the room. The silence starts off comfortable and becomes oppressive, and Phillips has read the same sheet of expert opinions four times while stealing glances at her. Rokia’s restless, shifting, chewing the end of her pen, twisting her fingers into her hair. Finally she catches him watching and glances down. “What’re you working on?” he asks, and his voice seems loud in the silence.

Rokia shrugs. “My uncle wants some new welding equipment, better scaffolding. I told him I’d spec it out for him. I usually go down there while the girls are in school but…” she shrugs.

It’s an opening, the most she’s given him since her short acerbic answers when he was trying to prepare her for her interview. “You like it?”

She shifts a little so she’s facing him. “Yeah,” she says, “I been working there since I was little.” She pauses, a corner of her mouth curling up. “My uncle always bitches about the hovercraft designs, not robust enough or too hard to fix out here. We used to talk about what we’d tell the Threes who designed them.”

Phillips smiles, feeling a little like he’s trapped a feral cat he wants to bring in. “Not compliments, I’m guessing.”

That gets another small smile. “No, not so much of that,” she says. “Just the other day it was ‘don’t they know grown goddamn men work on these things?’ because the access for the electrical system’s so tight.”

She looks back at the papers in her lap and Phillips takes his cue. “Sounds like good times,” he says, looking back at his own work, and the silence stretching back out doesn’t seem quite so tense anymore.

It’s a little after noon when Phillips hears the door open. Rokia tenses almost imperceptibly, stays put. Her Mom comes in—alone, thankfully—and stops when she sees Phillips on the couch. He stands up, and he’s watching Rokia’s mom but Rokia’s eyes are burning holes in his back the whole way.

“Ms. Diarra?” he says, and the woman laughs at him.

“Well, ain’t you fancy,” she says, giggling and moving toward him. “Call me Mata.”

“We need to talk,” he says, ignoring that, and she raises her eyebrows but comes around to sit on the couch.

“So talk,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Phillips takes a deep breath. He’s a grown man, he shouldn’t feel like he’s about to step off the platforms with no assurance the mines won’t go off underneath him. “Since your daughter’s win the Capitol has taken an increased interest in your whole family,” he says, in his Games-interviews voice. “I’ve had a request that you enter a drug abuse treatment facility.” It’s not a lie, exactly, he’s bad at outright lies, it’s the truth twisted so the sponsors will buy it and that he’s familiar with.

Mata’s eyebrows furrow and she glares at him. “That’s nobody’s damn business,” she says. “Least of all some Capitol freaks.”

Phillips glances at Rokia, whose face is blank, eyes narrowed as she watches. “That’s as may be,” he says, keeping his tone calm, “but there’ll be trouble if you don’t go.”

Mata scrubs her hands over her face but doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t want to make trouble for your girls, do you?” Phillips asks. Rokia’s jaw twitches and he sends a silent apology. It’ll be worth it if it works.

Mata leans her head back against the couch. “Shit,” she says. “This is fucking bullshit. Nobody gives a damn about your doped-up junkie neighbors, why’re they getting on my case?”

Phillips shrugs. “Nobody’s interested in a couple old Victors,” he says. “They like seeing your family on TV.”

“Rokia?” Mata glares at her daughter, who sits up, shifting so she can look back. “You just gonna let them do this?”

Rokia looks her mom right in the eye. “Yeah, Mom,” she says, and her voice is quiet but steady, and her mom looks away.

“I’m going to call someone to come pick you up,” Phillips says, getting to his feet, and Mata shifts her glare to him and sighs.

“Fine. You know what—just, fine. I’m gettin’ my stuff.” She storms up the stairs. Phillips looks at Rokia. Once her mom’s gone she lets out a breath, looks up at him. He hesitates, then walks over to rest his hand on her shoulder. She leans into the touch, just a little, so he stays there for a minute while she closes her eyes and breathes, long, shaky exhales until she calms down. Finally looks up at him and he smiles a little.

“It’ll be okay,” he says, and she nods, looking away.

“She’s never going to forgive me,” Rokia says, and it’s barely a whisper and Phillips knows it’s not for him but he can’t leave it like that.

“You’re not the one who should be asking forgiveness,” Phillips says, trying to keep the anger and bitterness out of his voice. Rokia tenses and pulls away from him and he sighs, finds the phone in the kitchen, and tells Lassine to send a car to the Victors’ Village.

Rokia’s mom comes down the stairs with a battered railroad duffel and looks over at Rokia. “Your grandpa’d be proud of you,” she says, and Rokia flinches and looks away. Mata smiles, and Phillips has to push back a shudder because that, right there, is the hard, nasty smile he saw on Rokia’s face after she knifed the Four boy, near the end when he started almost daring to wonder if she’d come out.

It’s been 23 years since Phillips killed anybody and he’s not about to break that streak, but his hands clench into fists at his sides. He doesn’t want to leave Rokia alone but he wants this woman away from his girl more than anything else right now so he swallows the rage that’s choking him and forces out the words.

“Come to my house,” he says, “We can get started on the paperwork.”

Phillips is still searching for the right form when the car honks outside and he jumps. Mata is leaning in the doorway glaring at him and her mouth twists into a smirk when he turns to look at her.

“Oh well, they’ll give it to you when you get there,” he says, and she walks out to the car without a word. As soon as they’re gone he walks over to Rokia’s.

Rokia comes to let him in, brushing away tears with the back of her hand, impatient. She walks away from him before he can say anything, goes into the kitchen and runs water into the kettle, puts it on the stove, searches through cupboards, generally finds excuses to keep her back to him until finally, she takes a deep, rough breath and turns around.

“She—“ Rokia pauses, “they’ll…” she takes another breath, shakes her head. “They’ll help her?”

Phillips nods. “They’ll do what they can,” he says. He doesn’t know what else to say, knows the statistics aren’t promising and nothing about the woman makes her seem like the type to be an exception. But Rokia’s as shaken as he’s seen her since they got back to Six, and he wants to be comforting.

“Hey,” he says, soft. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Maybe.”

She doesn’t kick him out so he stays, makes sandwiches, doesn’t comment when she spreads papers over the kitchen table and eats her sandwich with one hand. He takes his own pile back to the living room—he’ll have to talk to her one of these days about image and her Talent and the Victory Tour but it’s damn sure not going to be today.

A couple hours later she stacks everything together and heads for the door. “I have to pick up my sisters,” she says. She hesitates. “You can stay if you want. They like you.”

Phillips can’t not smile at that, he just hopes his grin is less goofy-looking than it feels. From the smile playing at the corners of Rokia’s mouth he’s probably wrong. “Do you want me to come with you?”

She shakes her head before he finishes the sentence. “No, it’s better if I just go.”

“I’ll wait here then,” he says, and she gives him a small smile before closing the door behind her. “See you in a bit.”

Phillips lets his head fall back against the sofa and takes a deep breath. He’s in her house, alone, and he’s not going to pretend that’s a small thing. She’s skittish still, of course she is, but he dares to think maybe, maybe it will keep getting better.

She’s back in less than hour, and the two little girls run in as soon as she opens the door. “Mister Phillips?” Kadi says, “Rokia said you came over! Do you want to play with trains some more?”

Phillips smiles. “Sure,” he says, “but why don’t you bring them down here and we can play together?” Kadi’s heading for the stairs as soon as he finishes.

Rokia smiles. “You got them enough track to fill the whole room, I think.”

Phillips grins back. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Allie’s sitting on the arm of the couch pulling off her shoes and socks. “We could make the whole district and go visit places,” she says. She looks over at Phillips. “Our grandma lives up North so we have pretend trips sometimes.”

Rokia looks at Phillips. “She works on the train so we see her every few months if she can get an afternoon.”

There’s a crash from upstairs and Rokia jumps, followed by “Rokiaaaaa! The box fell!”

Rokia rolls her eyes. “Coming, Kadi, that’s way too heavy for you!” She heads up the stairs and Phillips is face to face with Allie. Kadi’s easier: she’s outgoing and seems determined to befriend him. Allie watches. He’s not sure what to say to get her to open up, so he smiles, a little hesitant, and she bites her lip and looks back at him. “Rokia says Mom’s gone to see some doctors and she’s gonna stay there a while.”

Phillips tries to keep his face and his voice calm. “That’s right,” he says. He’s not sure what else to say. “They’re gonna try and help her.”

Allie just looks at him with big, curious eyes. “Our mom’s sick?” she asks, and Phillips wishes Rokia would come back because he doesn’t like doing this behind her back, but it’s not like he can dodge the question. This kid isn’t going to buy it.

“Yeah, Allie, she is.” Allie nods, considering, serious.

“That’s what Rokia says,” and good, because Phillips doesn’t want to contradict whatever Rokia’s said to these little girls. “I guess that’s why Mom forgets stuff.”

Phillips just looks at her. “What kind of stuff?” he asks.

“When Rokia went away she kept forgetting to take us to school. I had to do it until we went and stayed with Aunt Magda.” Allie is still watching for his reaction and Phillips isn’t sure what to do so he tries not to give her one, just nods. “Aunt Magda says our Mom is a piece of work and shouldn’t be allowed to have kids.” At that Phillips can barely hide a wince. He might completely agree, but there’s some things you don’t say in front of children. He’s saved from having to respond when Kadi clatters down the stairs, Rokia following behind with a box full of wooden train tracks.

“Okay, girls,” Rokia says, smiling, and Allie looks at Phillips, searching for a second, before she scoots down to the floor to start assembling track.

\--

Phillips gives it a couple weeks before he brings up the topic of Talents. He brings takeout to the house and sits afterwards next to Rokia on the couch, watching the little girls enact elaborate travel scenarios with various stuffed animals. The track does, in fact, take up most of the living room: the Capitol’s in one corner by the door, home in the middle of the room, and “Grandma’s house” over towards the stairs. Every once in a while Kadi’s rabbit will stop to rearrange tracks. Allie’s cat is more likely to go to the Capitol to be in movies or have tea with Caesar Flickerman, who is currently being played by a large green bear. Phillips and Rokia are occasionally consulted but mostly they keep half an eye on their work and half an ear on the girls.

Eventually Rokia stands up. “Okay girls, bedtime,” she says, and the kids groan but get up.

Kadi climbs up onto the couch to hug Phillips. “Goodnight, Uncle Phillips,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck. Phillips forgets to breathe for a minute. He looks up at Rokia, who’s smiling in a bemused sort of way, then back down at Kadi. He runs a hand over her hair.

“Goodnight, Kadi,” he says, a little rough.

Allie doesn’t climb on top of him but she comes by all the same. “Goodnight, Allie,” Phillips says, and she smiles shyly and glances over at Rokia before replying.

“Goodnight Uncle Phillips,” she says, just above a whisper, then goes to take Rokia’s hand as they go up the stairs.

Rokia comes down a little later, smiling. Phillips raises an eybrow. “Uncle Phillips?” he asks.

“Wasn’t me,” she says, “That was all Kadi. Guess she figured with you over here all the time it was silly to keep calling you Mister Phillips like you’re her teacher or something.”

Phillips is absurdly pleased at that, that this bouncing little kid has decided to make him part of her family. “It’s…nice,” he says, then coughs a little and changes the subject. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about your Talent.”

Rokia presses her lips together and goes to sit on the armchair. “Right,” she says, “I’m supposed to take up flower arranging or basketweaving or something so they can show me off in the Capitol.”

“Yeah,” Phillips says, slowly. “It’s usually something silly like that, but it doesn’t have to be.”

She’s watching him carefully, sizing him up. “You’ve got something in mind.”

“Well, I have an idea,” he says. “You really like working in the shop with your Uncle, right? It’s not just because it’s a job?”

She smiles, “No, I like it a lot. It’s nice, you know? Figuring out how things are put together and how to make them work better.”

“Yeah,” Phillips says. “But the thing is, Victors are supposed to have hobbies, not jobs. If it just looks like you’re a mechanic, they won’t like it.”

Rokia bites her lip. “Oh.” She looks down, disappointed.

“But,” Phillips says quickly, “If we connect it to your Talent then you’ll have an excuse to be down there, no matter what it is you’re actually doing.”

“Okay,” Rokia says slowly, thinking. “but how is ‘fixing hovercraft’ a Talent?”

“Well, just like that it’s not,” Phillips continues, hoping he’s read things right, “but hovercraft _design_ could be. Beetee and Wiress invent stuff, you could do this.”

Rokia’s eyes get wide. “Really? I could do that?”

Phillips nods. “I think so. If you come up with some improvements to current models by the Tour we can draw up the designs or make mockups. It should be allowed.” It’s also the kind of talent that will be supremely uninteresting to Capitol socialites, an added bonus Phillips doesn’t mention.

“What was yours?” Rokia asks.

Phillips winces. “Painting,” he says, “I’m not very good at it though.” Rokia’s face twists as she tries to hide a smile. “Go ahead, laugh,” Phillips says, waving a hand vaguely. “It was a little ridiculous.”

Rokia shakes her head. “I’m just trying to picture you explaining how very inspiring you found the…I don’t know, plumes of factory exhaust or something.”

Phillips groans. “Yeah, right,” he says, “they were polite, but nobody picked me for the next art prodigy.” He looks back at her, serious again. “But what do you think, about yours?”

She grins. “It’s great,” she says, “It’s perfect, I can get started right away.”

Phillips checks his watch. “Maybe in the morning?” he says, and she laughs.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m not going to run to the shop and start using power tools in the middle of the night.”

He glances at her, a little sharp, and raises an eyebrow. “So what do you do when you go out in the middle of the night?”

She glances down. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” she says.

“Mostly I see you when you come home,” he says, “I get up early.”

She’s watching him, wary again, like she’s trying to decide whether she trusts him enough to say what’s on her mind. Phillips sits quiet, waits until she sighs and looks away. “I mostly just walk around,” she says, “or I go sit on the roof at our old place. I get nightmares sometimes, can’t sit still afterwards.” She glances back at him, challenge flashing in her eyes, as though she thinks he’ll yell at her, punish her somehow for sneaking out, for admitting to nightmares or whatever else.

“It’s normal to have nightmares after the Games,” Phillips says, keeping his tone mild. “I still get them now and again.” He doesn’t tell her it’s more often now, doesn’t tell her he no longer dreams about his Games but about hers, sees her fall, sees two decades of the bloody deaths of Six tributes play out on her body. That sometimes he wakes up in a sweat terrified of what might be coming, sits at his window in the dark watching her house until he sees her coming in or going out. That he’s almost glad of her erratic habits because it means he can see her, whole and real, and know that whatever his dreams tell him and whatever is coming for them both he has her here now.

She’s silent, watching him, and Phillips wonders, always, what she sees. But she just nods. “Anyway,” she says, shifting uncomfortably. “I’ll see what I can come up with, for the hovercraft thing.”

So that moment’s over, Phillips thinks to himself, and says his goodbyes.

Back at the house he calls Brutus. “I think she’s going to work on hovercraft designs,” he says.

Brutus pauses for a second to think. “Yeah,” he says finally, “Could work.”

“She’s actually excited about it,” Phillips says.

“That’s good,” Brutus says, a little guarded still, and Phillips wonders if he’s read this wrong, if it’s actually a bad idea.

“I know it won’t be exciting for sponsors,” Phillips says, slowly, “But I don’t think we really want something too exciting.”

“No,” Brutus agrees, “it’s good. It keeps her connected to the district, that’ll play well. Threes won’t like it much,” he says, and Phillips frowns. He hadn’t thought too much about what the other districts would think, just that if Rokia is to use her talents in service of the Capitol, this is the best way.

Brutus takes the silence for the confusion it is and continues. “If she’s no good, they’ll be annoyed she’s playing at real work, and if she is good it makes their people look bad because they just got showed up by some kid from Six.”

“Oh,” Phillips says, and good, that’s intelligent strategy, way to go. “You think we should change it?”

“No,” Brutus says, “Pissing off the Threes a bit ain’t so bad. Six is too complacent about the Games, this’ll be a good way to get them more interested. You’ll have to play it right though,” he says, and Phillips pinches the bridge of his nose because there’s too much going on here, and he’s flying blind. “Keep her humble. Just a clever kid who sees a way to help her country. The Capitol will spin it to make her seem like more than that, but it can’t come from you.”

“Right.” Phillips says, and sighs. “Smart, but not too smart, humble, just trying to help. I’ll get my marketing team on that right away.” It comes out sharper than he wanted it to, but Brutus doesn’t react. “Thanks,” Phillips adds, tired and resigned.

“Not a problem,” Brutus replies, “Take care.”

Phillips hangs up the phone and looks out across the grass. The lights are on next door and he can see Rokia through the window, bent over her work. He looks down at the papers in front of him, careful strategy for the Games that never end, and he shoves down the fear as he wonders what’s waiting for them when they step back onto the platforms.


End file.
